It Takes a Village
by winter's-lion
Summary: It takes a village to raise a child. And they all have memories of two brothers who were as good as family.
1. Prologue

A/N: Due to a series of hilariously unfortunate events, my university ended up being shut down for several days way back in January, with no heat and no internet. So, whilst freezing my ass off in the Canadian-style winter cold and moving from dormitory to dormitory, trying to find heat or running water (or, bonus, both!), what better to do than write depressing fan fiction! I should probably finish the story I've had going and on hiatus for months, but since watching the newest instalment in the Peter Jackson The Hobbit trilogy, I find myself rather frustrated with the deviations from the original narrative. Regardless, in this fic I'm going to use what might be considered "future" movie-verse, but I will probably completely leave all -verse and go entirely AU, head-canon, and blah blah blah. And of course, throughout it all, I shall endeavour destroy your emotions, just as most of you, with your Fíli and Kíli tragedy fics, have destroyed mine. (Thanks for that, by the way.)

Updates will be erratic, as I work a ludicrous amount of jobs, I have varying degrees of inspiration, and I am a chronic procrastinator. Further information as needed will be provided in a/n's similar to this, but feel free to PM me if you so desire.

Anyways. If you care to join me, feel free to leave me a review that cheerfully informs me that my grammar sucks or something along those lines (although, of course, constructive critique is awesome, too). I am merely doing this for my own pleasure, so if it's just me with my feelings, that's cool, too. Cheers.

* * *

Prologue

"Kíli!"

Fíli's voice was raw and harsh, one scream among thousands ripping over the crash and calamity of bodies clashing against one another. The order of battle was lost in an instant: as soon as the armies met, all thoughts of patriotic honour fled Fíli's mind and all he cared about was staying alive. Staying alive, and keeping his brother alive as well.

The latter was proving to be the more difficult.

An orc appeared at his side, and Fíli paused his frantic scan of the field to heft his sword in preparation. His second sword had been long lost, near the beginning of the battle, lodged in the ribcage of a warg somewhere higher on the mountain. Slashes of metal flew about his face, and Fíli couldn't even think to respond; it was only by the instinct Thorin had repeatedly ingrained into his training that kept him alive. As the orc's partially decapitated head rolled back on its spine, displaying a torn jugular to the sky, Fíli found his dazed thoughts informing him that he had just performed a maneuver that he recalled Thorin razzing Kíli's poor performance over not two nights ago. It wasn't a difficult pattern, but Kíli's form was too loose, he being used to the upper-body strength required for archery, rather than the tight footwork required for swordplay.

Panting and granted a moment's sparing, Fíli turned his attention back to the writhing field surrounding him. It was mass confusion; how would he ever find Kíli in this? He could be every head of dark hair surrounded by orcs and wargs, or every body planted face-down in the mud, trodden-upon and degraded to obstacles. It was a hopeless search, one that left Fíli cold and panicked.

Distracted, he almost didn't see the warg mount a ledge of rock next to him, the orc perched on its back raising a crossbow to aim.

"Get down!"

Fíli vaguely heard the voice next to him, but his sword was already in motion, too late to duck. His blade bit into the side of the warg's head, more of a stunning blow than a damaging strike. At his side, Balin's sword cleaved down, barely missing Fíli's arm as it severed the orc rider in two. Too full of adrenaline to be dissuaded, Fíli used his back swing to finish the warg before it could recover enough to retaliate.

Balin grabbed a strap of Fíli's armour and dragged him to the side, almost knocking him over. A heartbeat later, a cascade of arrows shattered against the rock where they had been standing. Balin pulled Fíli close. "Where's your uncle?" He had to shout to be heard, even at such a close proximity.

"I don't know," Fíli replied helplessly. "Have you seen Kíli?"

Balin shook his head, hefting his sword to dive back into action. "I'll keep my eyes open, but you keep your focus, lad. The king and the mountain!" He lunged back into the din, just as something heavy hit Fíli in the back of the head.

Caught by surprise, he hit the ground hard, his sword skittering away from his hands. Almost confused, he struggled to take Balin's advice, turning about to face the orc who stood over him with a bludgeon in hand. The orc's face was a mess of destruction, flesh hanging off its face in strips of gore. Fíli could only stare in horror, all thoughts of self-preservation gone in his panic.

A roar erupted overhead, loud and strong enough to blow Fíli's hair back from his face, and the orc toppled lifelessly forwards, landing almost on top of him. The massive black bear that had killed the orc with a swipe of one taloned foot swayed on its hind feet, baying with its great maw hanging open. "Beorn," Fíli gasped, uncertain of whether he should feel relieved or all the more terrified.

The bear fixed him with its shiny black eyes, gave another cry and dropped to four paws, lumbering away with unnatural agility. As Fíli watched in amazement, Beorn barrelled straight into a legion of warg-riding orcs, gnashing his teeth and crushing wargs' skulls under his feet. Rolling to his feet, Fíli snatched up his sword again, staring about him in wonder. Besides Beorn the skin-changer, the shadows of eagles dropped from the clouded sky, knocking orcs and wargs asunder. A cry rose from the orcs, a howl of anger and fear; the tide was turning.

A man dropped from somewhere overhead, landing unevenly next to Fíli, startling him. "Your king," the man gasped quickly, holding his bloodstained side with one hand and warding of Fíli's raised sword with the other. "Your king is going to fall!"

"Thorin," Fíli said automatically. "Where is he?"

The man pointed into the melee, to what appeared to be the thickest knot of twisted bodies. Fíli barely had time to nod his thanks before he started through the mess, dodging flailing limbs, and pausing to dispatch or lend aid where he could. An orc sent flying from a strike by Beorn knocked him off his feet, but he held his sword and pushed on.

"Fíli! Fí!" Kíli appeared at his side, his sword clutched in both hands. He grinned at Fíli, but it was tight in his drawn, exhausted face. Fíli sadly wondered when the excitement and novelty of the great journey had lost its marvel for his younger brother; Kíli's once jovial eyes now had the hardened, lost look that the older dwarves had possessed for eons, the look of homeless and road-weary wanderers. Kíli gave Fíli a genial bump with his shoulder and promptly ducked under a blow from an orc's club. While Kíli slashed at its knees, Fíli took off its head. "Thorin's in there," Kíli informed his brother breathlessly, standing back up with barely a passing glance at the grotesque corpse at his feet. He pointed towards a tangle of bodies, so densely packed that it was impossible to tell where one started or the next began, let alone which arm belonged to orc and which foot to dwarf.

"Does he have any guards with him?" Fíli demanded, already running to help, though his stomach dropped with dread at the very sight of it.

Kíli kept pace with him, raising a hand grimly. "That would be me," he said bleakly. "I was supposed to be the guard."

Fíli's lips thinned into a grimace, but he didn't have time to say anything before the brothers threw themselves into the brawl. Just before his line of vision was blocked by the confusion of thrashing limbs, Fíli could see Nori and Dori flying towards them, weapons raised and faces drawn with determination- help was on its way. Then he fell into the crush of battle and lost himself in the confusion of bodies, hacking and dodging his way inwards.

"Thorin!" he cried, wincing as something metallic whizzed past his nose, too fast to identify. Kíli stumbled past him, and the two pushed through the last boundary of orcs, nearly crashing into Thorin.

"Fíli," Thorin murmured, "Kíli." Though his voice was far too quiet to be heard over the clamour, Fíli could read the underlying message. Thorin gave them a small smile- and collapsed.

Kíli roared inarticulately, turning on the nearest orc with fury. Fíli turned the other direction and the two protected each other's backs, Thorin safe between them.

It seemed to last forever, the two of them against a ring of orcs and wargs, their fallen uncle- fallen king- behind them. In reality, Fíli knew that it was only a few brief seconds, if minutes, that they stood alone, before Nori burst through the ring, as wild a beast as Beorn the bear. His dual knives flew, opened a gap in the surrounding enemies, and soon Dori and Bifur were there, helping. Dori paused, his own sword hanging limp for a moment. "Get him out of here, lads!" he hollered, and before they could respond, Dori vanished back into the turmoil.

Fíli whipped around. "Take his other arm," he called to Kíli, who took a final swipe at an advancing warg before turning to comply. Together, they hoisted their barely-conscious uncle up between the two of them, half dragging him out through the gap the others kept open for them.

They only made it few steps. An eagle swooped down in front of them to snatch up a warg, buffeting them with its massive wings. Fíli pushed Kíli and Thorin back, trying to keep their balance as the gigantic bird easily swooped away, its captive warg howling the entire way. Glancing back, Fíli jerked to the side, letting an orc streak past, missing them by inches, the pursuing elf seconds away from capturing it. "This is no good," Kíli called from behind, barely keeping Thorin upright. "We need to find him somewhere to lie safely."

"This is a battlefield," Fíli replied grimly. "There is no place to lie safely." He glanced back at his brother and uncle, to reassure himself that they were still there and fully intact. "Kíli, are you injured?"

"What?"

"The blood on your face, and neck, is it yours?"

The younger dwarf raised a hand and probed the offending area, his fingertips coming away scarlet. "I don't think so," he replied, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion. He looked back up at Fíli, eyes dark with something akin to anger. "Is it Thorin's?"

Fíli opened his mouth to reply. Before he could even speak, he saw Kíli's eyes widen, his lips part in a soft exhale of surprise. Not a second later, something hard and heavy hit Fíli square in the chest, knocking him backwards. Thorin was wrenched from his grip, and he hit the ground hard, his ears ringing.

"Kíli!" he gasped, his scream cut short when something dark crashed over his eyes like a tidal wave, and he knew no more.

ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ

The first thing Thorin did as soon as he woke was demand his nephews' presence. Óin's face, already grim with an unspoken prognosis, darkened even further, sorrow lining his old face as he slowly, stiffly, packed away the last of his medical supplies. At the head of the bed, Balin fiddled with the tattered hem of the sheet tucked around Thorin's ravaged body.

"And the burglar," Thorin added, his voice husky and ragged with breathlessness. "Bring them all to me, the three of them."

"You should rest," Óin growled, snapping his case shut with finality.

Thorin turned his head slowly towards the old healer, his eyes the only part of his face that held any semblance of life. "I know what time I have left," he snarled weakly. "I would spend it with my nephews, and I must set my wrongs right with our Hobbit while I still can."

Balin slowly lifted his sad eyes to Óin. "Please send Dwalin to find Bilbo, if he can," he stated in a slow, stilted voice that spoke magnitudes of both weariness and grief.

"Aye," Óin murmured, slipping out of the tent and leaving the two alone inside.

Thorin fixed his eyes sternly on Balin, his gaze no less piercing even in his last few moments. "And my nephews, Balin. Bring Fíli and Kíli."

"I would," Balin replied, his voice breaking. "But they are already here."

Balin stood from his seat and pulled aside the edge of the sheet hung from the ceiling. Thorin had initially thought it was for privacy, but he felt his heart falter when a new thought crossed his mind. He had to crane his neck, too weak to lift himself from the bed that he was laid upon. His pale eyes settled on the beds opposite his, mattresses laid on the ground and shrouded in plain sheets much like his own. He studied his sister-sons as they lay there, their faces covered with white cloths.

"I see." Thorin sighed, letting his eyelids slid shut again.

"They went honourably," Balin assured him gently, releasing the sheet so as to fold his hands in front of him. "Defending you, they were. You should be proud."

Thorin nodded limply. "I am," he whispered, completely hoarse now. "But I led them into this. I brought them here." He swallowed, his eyebrows furrowing slightly. "My sister will never forgive me."

Balin laughed mirthlessly. "She'll have to make her peace." They sat in silence for a moment, each struggling with their emotions. At last, Balin drew a deep breath and reached down to grip Thorin's lax hand where it lay atop the sheets. "I am sorry," he stated. "Our losses may be great, but we have won back our home. In the end, you have succeeded. Erebor is once again ours."

Thorin opened his eyes again, smiling thinly up at his old friend. "And with it, so ends the line of Durin."


	2. Chapter I

Chapter I

A letter was written to be sent to Dís, explaining the circumstances and urging her to hasten to the mountain. Eight bloody, war-weary dwarves stood around the table while a ninth wrote the final words and set his quill down. Silence settled heavily with a mantle of sorrow over every stooped and tired figure. Ori picked up the letter in front of him, blew on the ink a final time to be certain it wouldn't smudge, then handed it to Balin. The older dwarf carefully folded the parchment and sealed it shut, pressing Thorin's signet ring into the hardening wax.

"How long are we to wait for her to join us?" Dori asked quietly, watching as Balin set the ring aside with a conscientious caution. "If she takes half as long as we did to make the journey, she'll never be here in time."

Bofur rubbed absently at a blossoming bruise on his cheek with a dejected hand. "We shall have to beg Gandalf to aid us."

His companions gave him a long look before a silent consent was admitted. Balin wordlessly handed Bofur the sealed letter, and they all followed him out of the tent to find the wizard.

He was settled in the grass near one of the tents set up for the wounded, smoking contentedly, his hat discarded on the ground beside him. Bofur slowly approached him, the others gathered in a crowd behind him. Before he had even opened his mouth to speak, Gandalf took his pipe from his mouth. "Bofur?"

"Mister Gandalf, sir," Bofur replied, clasping the letter to his chest with both hands. "We're sending for Dís- that is, the lads' mother." He timidly offered the letter. "She should be here, for the rituals, but traditionally, we can wait no longer than two days before we inter Thorin and... and Fíli and Kíli."

Gandalf's aged eyes remained fixed on Bofur's face, though they grew distant with understanding. "I see." He slowly placed the pipe back in his mouth, and held out a hand. "You'd best give that to me, then," he muttered around the pipestem.

Bofur gratefully handed the letter to him, while their audience visibly relaxed, comforted in their certainty that Gandalf would look after matters. Gandalf picked up his hat and used his staff to lever himself to his feet. "Where is Óin?" he asked, mentally counting the faces that remained.

Bofur had backed away to join the crowd of his kin, but he answered steadily, "He's waiting with them. We'll each take a time while we wait for Dís. It's the least we can do." He smiled sadly, and Gandalf nodded sagely, conveying understanding and respect.

"And I will see to it that Dís arrives in time," Gandalf promised, raising the letter slightly. "It's the least I can do."

* * *

Óin sat beside Thorin, a basin of water at his side and a cloth in hand. He lifted Thorin's hand and gently began to wash away the blood and grime that remained there. "I never thought I would be the one in this position," he said, his voice vague and soft. "You were invincible." He dipped the cloth back into the water, the hand holding Thorin's shaking slightly. "But here we sit." He shook his head regretfully, wiping mud from his king's knuckles. He worked in silence from there, but his thoughts continued to roll, a tumult of memories that insisted that the man laying before him was alive.

* * *

_circa T.A. 2894_

It was raining. Óin couldn't hear the raindrops pelting against the thick glass in the window, but the old ache in his joints told him just as surely as if he could. He groaned and dropped his old, battered ear trumpet onto the table beside his chair, sinking into the seat with the stiffness of a dwarf much older than he. He was about ready to fall asleep there, but for a rattle that urged him to investigate. He couldn't really hear it anymore than the raindrops- curse his deafness- but the floorboards under his boots vibrated with repercussion.

It took him a minute to figure out, but there was someone banging against his door outside.

"One minute!" he yelled, fumbling for his ear trumpet and inserting it before stumping to the door. He flung it open and peered out into the rain, confused to find there was no one there. Or so he thought.

"Sir!"

He glanced down in surprise and found himself staring at a small, blonde dwarven child, who was hollering at him with plaintive urgency. "And who are you?" he asked, wondering why a child would be out in this weather, at this time of the evening.

"Fíli, sir," the child answered, his words a rush. "Please, are you the healer, Óin?"

"Aye," Óin growled, already retreating into his house to retrieve his bag and travelling cloak. He was obviously going to need them.

From the door, Fíli continued to blabber. "It's my uncle, sir, he won't wake up, and now Kíli is starting to cough, and Mother doesn't know what to do, so she sent me to find you and-"

"It'll be alright, lad," Óin assured him, pushing the child out the way so that he could shut the door behind him. "But hurry, you'll need to lead me to your house."

Fíli practically quivered with fear and anxious energy, and Óin knew that he wanted nothing more than to dash away into the night and return home as quickly as possibly. Despite this, the lad seemed to know that Óin would never be able to keep up with him, and kept pace with the old dwarf with quiet patience. Trying to think of a way to distract the child's restlessness, Óin said, "What's your father's name?"

"Farin. But he's dead."

"Eh?"

"Farin!" Fíli shouted louder, remembering that his mother had warned him of the healer's inherent deafness.

Óin took a second to contemplate this before answering. "And your mother?"

Fíli looked up at him with curious blue eyes. "Dís."

The old dwarf started. "Then Thorin is your uncle!"

Fíli nodded.

Having sorted this out, Óin fell back into his silence, focusing on the rain-beaten road underfoot. He was walking alongside one of the heirs to the throne under the mountain. He had known, of course, that there were two additions to the line of Durin in the recent years, but he had never been introduced to them, and had never learned their names.

Fíli stoically led him to a secluded house, further up the mountain and surrounded by a blind of scraggly trees, which were bent with the worsening rain. A flickering lamp could be seen through the glass in the window, a lonely light in the dark, miserable night.

Fíli flung himself at the door and the heavy wood groaned open, spilling light out into the night. Dís, who had been sitting at a bedside across the single room, stood and hurried to take Óin's cloak. "Thank you for coming," she murmured, hanging the garment on a hook on the wall, and pulling him to the bed.

"Which is worse?" Óin asked, falling into his profession with ease, setting his bag down beside the bed and rummaging through his supplies.

Dís gave a half-hearted scoff, though her nervous eyes belied her fear and concern. "My fool of a brother was out all week on a patrol. He was convinced that there were orcs coming too close to the mountain. As always, he refused to even consider that his health may be in jeopardy, spending several nights in the rain." She leaned over the bed and adjusted the cloth that had fallen from Thorin's forehead. "By the time he got back late last night, he was already burning with fever. I thought it would break, but he hasn't woken since he fell asleep this morning, and I'm starting to worry." Her mouth narrowed to a grim line. "And now he's infected my bairn." On the other side of the bed, another dwarven child, smaller even than Fíli lay, shivering and curled close to his uncle in an attempt to regain warmth.

"Kíli," Óin recalled, glancing back at Fíli, who had taken up a vigil in a corner near the side of the bed that his younger brother occupied.

"Yes," Dís confirmed.

"Right." Óin handed her a pair of packets, each containing aromatic herbal remedies that crinkled like thin parchment when he handled them. "Boil these in some water and let's see if we can't break this fever."

Dís turned away to follow his directions, and Óin caught Fíli's eye, beckoning him over. Leaning down to the lad's height, Óin said, "I need you to help me. Can you build up the fire and tend it while your mother and I work? We want to keep it as hot as possible in here, and see if we can't help these two sweat the illness out."

Fíli nodded mutely, scurrying away to fetch wood from the stack against the wall, next to the fireplace. Óin kept an eye on him for a few seconds, to be certain that the lad knew what he was doing and wouldn't injure himself. Fíli proved completely capable, however, and Óin turned back to his charges, lifting the moist cloth on Thorin's forehead to check his temperature.

"T'would be a bit of a silly way to go, for you," Óin muttered to Thorin as he evaluated his pulse. "Thorin Oakenshield, warrior and exiled King Under the Mountain, put low by illness!"

Dís returned shorty with a steaming pot of foul-smelling water. "What am I to do with this?" she inquired, watching with sharp eyes as Óin moved to the other side of the bed and checked young Kíli's temperature with the back of his hand. The little dwarfling coughed weakly, clinging to one of his uncle's braids with fierce determination.

"We must wait for it to cool," he replied. He turned around to fetch something from his bag and all but tripped over Fíli, who had deserted his station at the fireplace. "Goodness!" Óin barked, barely avoiding stepping on the child. "What are you doing, lad?"

When Fíli didn't reply, Dís supplied the answer. "They're inseparable," she informed Óin with a small, half smile. "Those two, I can't keep one away from the other for more than a few minutes."

"Hmph," was all Óin answered with, stepping around Fíli to reach his bag. "Just make sure that fire is tended to!"

"Yes, sir."

Dís helped Óin pour the cooled brew from her pot into a mug, and while Óin held Thorin upright, Dís helped him swallow some. Thorin gagged reflexively at the taste, and his brows furrowed, his eyes starting to move behind his eyelids. Dís looked concerned, but Óin nodded approvingly. "That's good," he assured Dís. "Now for Kíli."

He reached for his second patient, and nearly yelped in surprise when he found not one dwarfling, but two, curled tightly together on the other side of the sickbed.

"Fíli!" Dís growled, more exasperated than concerned now.

"Mahal's hammer, lad!" Óin exclaimed. "Do you want to catch this illness, too?"

"He's cold," Fíli replied defensively. Kíli still held one of Thorin's braids, but his other hand now gripped Fíli's tunic, his head buried in Fíli's shoulder. He was indeed shivering, but when Óin checked his temperature, reaching awkwardly around Fíli to do so, he was surprised to find that the child was already feeling better.

"We'd better give him a douse as well, just to be safe," Óin decided, and Dís nodded.

"Let him sit up," she demanded, having to forcibly pull Fíli away from his younger brother so that they could find Kíli's face.

Kíli wasn't as delirious as Thorin, and still had enough energy to cause grief. He smelled the bitter tea before they could force it down his throat, and he stubbornly shut his mouth, refusing to succumb to whatever coaxing his mother tried on him, be it sweet talk or threats. "I don't wanna!" he shrieked petulantly, yanking on the braid in his little fist, and though Thorin remained comatose, he began to growl like a prodded bear.

"Dearest, you must," Dís tried a final time, her voice revealing that she was nearing the end of her patience.

Fíli patted her hand sympathetically, with the enlightened comfort only a child seemed capable of possessing. "Mam, let me try it."

"You?" Dís repeated blankly. "Why would you want this? It's smells terrible!"

"If Kíli sees me drink it, maybe he'll take some," Fíli reasoned.

Kíli nodded complacently. "Maybe," he agreed solemnly.

At a loss, Dís looked to Óin. He shrugged. "It won't harm him any," he assured her. "What can it hurt to try?"

She heaved a long-suffering sigh. "Oh, very well." She handed the cooling mug to her eldest.

Fíli calmly took a swig and nearly spewed it all over the bed. He swallowed with some difficulty and, eyes streaming, handed it to Kíli, who watched the whole ordeal with narrowed, analytical eyes. "It is positively wretched," Fíli informed him calmly, after hacking dramatically.

Kíli paused for a painfully long moment, then wiped his leaky nose with the back of his hand. "'Kay," he agreed, and drained the last of the mug, dropping it instantly as he too started to wheeze and cough, though Dís secretly thought it was all theatrics just to be like Fíli.

Not long afterwards, though long enough for both Fíli and Kíli to fall asleep, tucked against Thorin's side, Dís was relieved to hear the rattling breaths of the fevered even out to the rumbling snores of the nasally congested. She reported this development to Óin, who was, of course, too deaf to hear the difference.

"Good, good," he agreed, stifling a yawn behind his hand. "We can check them again in a few hours, and they'll be fine."

Dís gave a relieved sigh, dropping into a chair. Her shoulders slumped with weariness. "Thank you, Óin, truly. I don't know where we'd be without your knowledge."

Óin, however, was busy studying the sleeping dwarflings. "Say," he asked, " are these two really as co-dependant as they seem?"

Dís cast a fond glance at her sleeping sons. "I suppose. They're not just brothers, they're best friends."

"Hmm," Óin replied. "That may turn out to be unhealthy."

"Oh, what do you know," Dís snapped irritably.

* * *

Óin smiled slightly at the memory. He gently wiped the last traces of blood from Thorin's palm and set the cloth aside. From his pocket, he pulled out the rings Thorin usually wore and slid them on the king's fingers. He reverently replaced the hand at Thorin's side, letting his hand rest on top for a moment longer.

"Óin?" a voice called from outside the tent. Glóin pushed through the tent flaps, limping slightly on a sprained ankle. "You've been in here for hours. Take a break; I'll sit with them."

"Hm?" Óin grunted, even though he had heard his brother perfectly fine. "I'll be out in a moment."

Glóin nodded, and retreated to give Óin a last moment of privacy.

Óin gave Thorin's cold hand a final squeeze."It has been a true pleasure serving you," he murmured, wishing that Thorin would give him a sardonic look, roll his eyes, or anything else characteristically acerbic. There was nothing, though; covered by the white cloth out of respect, he would never see the King Under the Mountain's face again.


End file.
